Fan my flames,
Pour in some passion,
Your colors are blasé, autumn -
Grieves the nightingale.
Far is the spring,
Yet at hand is the urn
Grape-vines though flutter
By the tavern thou seated.
This sweetness is to over
Long winters are awaited,
We then plunge to the darkness,
We shall rise by sun-rise,
Every dusk hath a dawn,
Every night is daybreak.
Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
December 17,2013.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem